


Bug Report

by PlumTea



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlumTea/pseuds/PlumTea
Summary: There are two ways to create. One is to sculpt life from nothing. The other is to tear off pieces of yourself and drop them in the soil.Lucilius categorizes his thoughts.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	Bug Report

**Author's Note:**

> Written for WMTSB Zine! Thank you to everyone who supported the zine!

_ There is a creation myth for every civilization, some grand story of how the world was formed. _

_ All of them, of course, are ridiculous. _

_ Everyone knows that creation myths aren’t as much retellings of reality as they are rationalizations of one’s surroundings. Older civilizations, perhaps in some world beyond our own, coming up with their own grand hypotheses of how they came to be, elevating themselves in the process. To want to map the unknown is a common goal across all societies. _

_ One similarity that can be drawn across all mythos is that divinities tend to keep their distance. There can be those that choose to interact with the beings they rule over, but most of the time, that interaction is relegated to a chosen few. The worthy ones. Divinities create and then retreat into ennui, choosing to be observers rather than agents of change.  _

_ The second similarity is that there is always a being who speaks on behalf of the divinities. A person existing on one plane can’t grasp a being on a dimension above theirs, so there must always be someone that can act as a bridge between the two, a messenger of some sort. _

_ The third similarity is that said messenger tends to not do their job very well. If the divinities wanted to remain all-powerful and relevant, they would send their messenger to inspire praise, to constantly remind the people below to shut their eyes and only listen to their voice.  _

_ Of course, there will always be someone that would try to peek anyway. _

Lucifer came to Lucilius in a dream, like many other truths. The Angel Core project had been progressing fairly well, but the cores themselves were helpless and needed a fleshy shell. The first to breathe was Lucifer, different than the rest, more brilliant than the rest. 

Lucifer was _ perfect _ , because that was how Lucilius made him to be. He had carefully sculpted Lucifer’s form from raw elements; sewing tendons and ligaments over muscles, chiseling away bone to match the face in his mind, folding tissues and weaving nerves. When Lucifer opened his eyes and spoke his creator’s name, Lucilius felt breathless, for he had made life from not his body but his mind and now he was no longer alone. 

“At least he has some use,” a member of the high council sneered. If he didn’t, he’d be disassembled and scrapped. To the council, Lucilius’ primal beasts are mere animals, and if said animals were proven useless, there are other war machines that could use parts and funding. The relics in their meeting rooms have never been clever enough for subtlety. They’re also not daring enough to deny efficiency, as fearful of Lucifer as they are. Not even the greatest of fools could deny absolute perfection. 

Lucifer doesn’t have the hard lines on Lucilius’ face or the dark circles under his eyes because he solves problems with ease and rarely tires. Completely autonomous, toiling silently towards the future for evolution’s sake. Someone Lucilius could share his greatest thoughts with. 

He has a bundle of papers in his arms, anatomical charts and plans for the next line of primals, looking for his only equal. He spots Lucifer at the end of the hall, in the middle of a sunbeam.

“Luci—” And Lucilius pauses, struck silent by the sight. For the first time, Lucifer doesn’t look right, like his muscles and bones are all out of place. His hair is too silver and not gold, his skin isn’t meant to be that pale, his eyes are far too hard, he is meant to tower and not remain small. Even though the light spins around him, he is merely working with it; it isn’t his own. He is supposed to be glory, not shadow.

“My friend?” Lucifer asks, sensing something is wrong but not sure what. In that moment, he is the same again, every sinew of perfection in place. The sunlight coming in through the windows had brightened the corridor and lit up the mirror behind Lucifer, bouncing Lucilius’ own reflection back at him. 

“It’s nothing. Come, I need you to look at these charts.”

Lucifer is firm in his words, skillfully pointing out suggestions and improvements that Lucilius wouldn’t have thought of himself. Truly the ideal, the only equal he ever would need. 

Yet for the first time, Lucilius feels a prickle of disdain towards his supreme creation.

* * *

_ The Council calls attempting to make a perfect creation ‘heresy’, a slight against society and the divine. What they actually mean is that it makes them uncomfortable.  _

_ If an ultimate being was not meant to be created, then it would have been impossible to make Lucifer. I am only able to create with the tools and elements at my disposal; there is no conjuring up unknown element X to make my ideals a reality. The limits of the world allowed for Lucifer to exist, and so he shall exist.  _

_ The same can be said for anything forbidden. If something was truly forbidden, then it wouldn’t exist, for the Omnipotent wouldn’t have allowed it to be in the first place. If it must exist for balance to be maintained, then it would be kept far away, out of reach so that nobody would come into contact with it, much less consider it. In that sense, temptation is less of a seduction into the wrong as it is an alternative choice.  _

_ That being said, if anything were to break the world out of the permanent feedback loop it’s stuck in, then it would have arisen already. From that, it can only be gathered that the Omnipotent means for this world to continue along the path to homeostasis for all of eternity. _

_ Doesn’t that seem like a truly worthless way to live, to endlessly walk upon a narrow path? The choices are very simple; be content with comfortable chains, or toil for something more. _

_ There is always a way to force an intended outcome. There are also endless methods to make someone believe the conclusion in their mind is something they came up with on their own.  _

Black clouds blocks the light as harsh winds tell of a growing storm. The sea-salt is stinging Lucilius’ eyes, but he pays it no mind. An unknown species had collapsed on a nearby isle. Its corpse stretches long across the beach, carrying secrets that Lucilius tears free with his dissection tools. 

“Doesn’t look too good out there.” Belial comments, watching the horizon. The surf is at his feet, foam cresting over his shoes, but he doesn’t make to move or make Lucilius move. “We’ve got maybe a few minutes before things get really bad.” Belial only needed to be there to lie on Lucilius’ behalf, to spin stories to Lucilius’ colleagues, the local villagers, anyone who dared venture close. He would be just as efficient at a distance, where he could redirect anyone curious and stop anyone trying to harm Lucilius from afar. Still, he stands persistently by Lucilius’ side.

The storm and danger doesn’t matter, not when this specimen is before him. Such an intriguing creature, not of the skies or stars, held together as an amalgamation of parts. Heretic to the order of the divine, and Lucilius is always on the lookout for blasphemies. This is something he can recreate and modify with the right amount of spare parts, perhaps a timely disaster—

Rain drips down Lucilius’ nose, crest of his ear, and then the black clouds break above him. The storm is impatient, and roars one final warning. 

“Time to go,” Belial says, and Lucilius barely has time to grab his notes and supplies before he’s hauled up and whisked away. The corpse and shoreline are lost to them as Belial flies fast and far. The waves will claim the corpse after the storm has passed, leaving only Lucilius’ notes as proof that it ever existed.

Belial is having fun with Lucilius pressed to him like this, knowing that Lucilius is never one to deny efficiency. Inefficiency would be pulling Lucilius along the shore, the sand tearing his long robes while grime cakes on the bottom of his shoes. With a sigh, Lucilius allows Belial to carry him undisturbed. 

Shelter is a cave inside a cliffside, hollowed out by the wild, its inner depths long having forgotten the sun. Lucilius wrings out his robes, soaked from corpse fluids and the downpour, and Belial hands him a damp handkerchief to dry his bangs.

“We’re all alone, so how about we have some fun? Nobody’s around to hear us.”

Lucilius cuts him with a glare. He is very aware of Belial’s desire for him, all of him, from the depths of his body to the pools of his gaze. This was not something that Lucilius programmed, it’s something Belial came to want on his own. Ridiculous, an impossible delusion.

“In that case,” Belial says, expertly switching between truth and lies, “let’s talk about your master plan.”

He looks to the storm outside, howling and raging at everything unfortunate enough to be swept up in its chaos. This isn’t true chaos; at the end of the storm there will be something remaining. 

“The world as the Omnipotent has made it is a cycle,” Lucilius starts, his detached voice stitched with contempt bouncing off the cave walls, as if six of him speaking at once. “This cycle never changes. Everything will end up stagnant, because this world isn’t meant to progress. It’s lost sight of where it’s meant to be going. Miserable.”

Belial’s heard his words before, in the deep of the lab where nobody but them visits, but he listens like it’s his first time.

“But the boundaries between the realms are thin. People have a set idea of what ‘normal’ is, so it’s easy to make monsters. A great cataclysm that will put an end to everything.”

“One big finale,” Belial grins. “Let it all fall.”

What Belial may have is his trust. He needs an accomplice to bring about the end of all things, and for that he needs someone intelligent on his side. There is always Lucifer’s strength, but Lucifer has too much heart.

There is no need for heart at the end of the world.

* * *

_ Temptation is a strange notion. It implies that the world is imperfect from the very start, a truth, and that everyone is flawed from the start, a convenient phrase. If the Omnipotent had wished for a conflict-free world, it would have been so, but it isn’t, so that isn’t what he wished for. In other words, if a truly pure being were to exist, they would have never interacted with temptation at all. Best for a god to keep their perfect being in a glass box, never to see the outside world, never to know anything but the god and their stories.  _

_ But that would be no better than a doll. Wanting to give a creation life and will is already accepting that said being has the option to disobey. Therefore, free will is the best rebellion against the gods, for it is the thing that allows every individual to be their own. _

_ The greatest mistake the gods made was giving their creations the ability to choose as they please. It will be their downfall.  _

Lucifer is in the garden again. It’s become part of his schedule; when he isn’t slaughtering the enemies of the stars, he’s here, bringing with him food, stories, freshly cleaned teacups. All for the sake of his disgusting creation.

Sandalphon is in the gazebo, looking at Lucifer like Lucifer is the world. Lucifer claims to have taken inspiration from the small birds below in the Sky Realm, and that would be a fine choice for a messenger angel, not his replacement. As if that boy with worthless, mud-colored wings could ever be as dazzling as Lucifer. He is dirt clinging to Lucifer’s shoe, a diseased animal that Lucifer in his boundless benevolence refuses to get rid of.

And Lucifer, he smiles, he smiles even when Sandalphon’s hands shake so much that he spills coffee all the white tablecloth. He folds it up, stains and all, and his lips read that he’ll have them cleaned, and Sandalphon sits watching this all with his mouth pressed thin. 

Between the sunlight and golden trees, there is a shadow, one that cuts through the stone path to the table and says, “It’s time for maintenance.” 

Sandalphon freezes up, eyes darting between Lucilius and Lucifer, looking for a way out. He is frightened; terrified of needles and scalpels and charts and exams and good, he should be. Lucifer shifts in his seat, and interesting, there is dissent in his eyes, disagreement in throat. But he keeps quiet, knowing that there is no convincing Lucilius to turn away from his work.

Sandalphon’s charts are all normal, barely above the level of the third-generation angels. His core has the potential for growth if exposed to a great amount of energy; for example, if a stronger set of wings were grafted onto his back. Even that is an impossibility, for even if he has the capability, he will never be worthy. There is only one morning star, and it’s not him.

“Keeping busy, aren’t you?”

Sandalphon swallows. Lucilius only ever talks to him through transplants and surgical stitches. “I suppose so,” he mumbles. He’d have to; Lucifer has forbidden that he leave the garden and the labs. The garden is his life and his cage. 

“Everything progressing normally?”

Sandalphon nods, his gaze shifting to the side. “Of course, everything’s fine.” He thumbs the length of his hospital gown and Lucilius thinks, amused, at how this brat isn’t the only weed growing in Lucifer’s garden. 

* * *

One last time, Lucilius dreams.

_ The Omnipotent, the almighty, the creator of the world and the destroyer of all and nothing, sits at his perch in the sanctum. Then there is Lucilius, the void where light begins and dies.  _

_ The skies are bleeding into each other, red into blue, until it’s impossible to tell what is right and wrong. The stars have long fallen, swallowed up by their own weight, and the rest is lined up to follow them.  _

_ God struggles, for he must as his greatest creation collapses around him, but there is no such thing as eternity, and there is no such thing as something that can’t be killed. Lucilius is before death, but he is unafraid, for he has blotted out the world by his own hand. The Omnipotent had everything, he had a toy garden with countless pieces that he cursed with his blessings, but he erred. He allowed Lucilius to think for himself. He let Lucilius see what was beyond faith, and now he is nothing more than a dragon meant to be slaughtered. _

_ When blood is on Lucilius’ blade, the finale comes as praise for his name, a reward for defiance. In the true end there is nothing; no mirrors, no emotion, no grit, a finale of this miserable fate, and in that emptiness is freedom _ —

* * *

The notebooks go into the fire. Once they were a good way for Lucilius to categorize his thoughts, but now they’re just evidence. 


End file.
